In 1982, I lived in Austin, Texas. It was the sort of place that seemed to offer me, a single twenty-five year old guy, an extended pit-stop in the journey of life -- a chance to hide from loneliness, from responsibility, from myself.

One night, dejected after an English woman I'd been Seeing, dumped me for an English guy (they were probably cousins, I reasoned), I aimlessly headed into the evening for a few "I'm sorry for myself" beers. I walked about a mile from my house to a mall, where I found myself in front of a tavern I'd never visited before. There was a sign in front announcing, "Tonight only, Trout Fishing in America." I read the sign again, thinking, "Trout Fishing in America?" I went in.

The first sign that the evening might develop into something memorable came when I bumped into a guy with long blond hair, walking to the stage holding a guitar. Nothing unusual in that, except that I'm six-four, and I found myself about eye-level with his Adam's apple. Then another guy, seemingly two feet shorter than the blond guitarist, walked to the stage where his bass stood waiting. "Hm," I thought. I shoved the beer I'd just paid for back at the bartender and ordered coffee. Something told me that I wanted to be wide awake for this one.

? I could have skipped the coffee. Those two guys drew me in with their spare but particularly adept musical arrangements, and as for their vocal harmonies, well, it just seemed that they were meant to sing together. There was an innocence to their songs, yet a sneaky sort of profound spirit infused them. Many of their songs seemed written for children, which normally would have seemed incongruous in a smoke-filled bar, yet somehow, that evening, did not. I found myself drawn from feeling merely interested, to entertained, to enchanted. When closing time came--all too soon--I felt that someone had grabbed me and shaken the hardness out of my heart. I walked out of the place with nary a thought of my now-former girlfriend and her English cousin.

Over the years, I sometimes thought about Trout Fishing in America. But, before the internet, thinking about them was about all it came to. Fast forward twenty-two years to this year. My wife comes home and asks, "Feel like doing anything tonight?" "Sure," I replied, "you want to go out to dinner?" "No, Peggy asked as if we want to meet her and her kids to see some guys who call themselves 'Trout Fishing in America.'"

That evening, we walked in to the auditorium with our son, found some seats behind Peggy, and waited. Then out onto the stage they walked: Ezra Idlet, all six feet nine inches of him, and Keith Grimwood, all five feet two inches of him. To tell the truth, I had to overcome an initial resentment, as those guys appeared to have aged at about half the rate that I saw evidenced in the mirror. But as the evening unfolded, tears came to my eyes at least twice: once, when I realized that they still had their magic, and again when I saw that my three-and-a-half year old son was drawn in to their warm realm as well. It was very much like rediscovering an inviting, comforting haven, only this time it was even better. This time, I sat with my family. My family.

A couple of months have passed since I rediscovered Trout Fishing in America. Now, my son no longer asks to hear his formerly favorite CD--by the Crash Test Dummies--when we get in the car. No "Big Trouble" by Trout Fishing in America is now number one on his request list.

My son, my wife, and I don't sound as good as Keith and Ezra as we sing along in the car. But, we think Keith and Ezra would approve anyway.

Hal Johnson
Haljohn1 @ aol. com

About Me:

I live in northern California with my wife and son, as well as two dogs and five llamas. My wife and I were high school sweethearts, but we lost contact with each other when I entered Army flight school. We didn't see each other for seventeen years. I learned where she was living in 1993, and we met again. Five months later, we were married. It was the first time for both of us. Sometimes I still worry that it's really just a dream.